Harper (NaNoWriMo 2014)

Chapter 1: Thank Goodness It's Friday

For as long as he could remember, Harper wanted to be a fish.

Perhaps it was the lack of responsibility. Or the fact that he really loved swimming. Or, most likely, a combination of both. Either way, to Harper, the piscine life was the way to go. None of this fancy dressing and stiff manners and pretending to like people you hated.

 Then again, he had left that years ago.

Harper shook the unpleasant memories from his head, bubbles rising like smokestacks as he refocused on the ideal of having gills. The cold water helped numb his pounding hangover, and he stayed underwater with arms spread, a toe touching the bottom, some sort of seaweed or kelp tangling around his foot. He turned his head, curls straightening and following lazily, and watched with envy at the school of mackerel flashing by in between the wooden stilts of the boardwalk.

Lately, the man had started taking an interest in Buddhism, solely for the rebirth aspect. A second-hand copy of Siddhartha sat on his desk, the 5th page dog-eared, untouched since the day he bought it. The protagonist was too goody-two-shoes, Harper had thought, and his servant friend wasn’t much better either. Yet, watching the fish pass by in the murky green-lit water made him want to pick up the book again.

A familiar heat started to burn in his lungs and Harper took his cue, kicking his foot loose from the floor’s grasp and shooting up to the surface. He threw his head back after breaking the water’s edge, gasping dramatically a la Little Mermaid and grinned to himself as he ran his fingers through his hair. Now there was a movie he didn’t understand. That girl had no idea how good she had it. In fact, blasphemous as it was, he preferred the sequel. Melody had her head on better than her stupid mother.

Then again, she had left the ocean for a pretty hot piece of man-meat. For that, he couldn’t blame her.

Just as he was about to dive back under, a muffled beeping erupted from his watch. He groaned. He was going to have to leave the ocean too, but for a much less attractive piece of man-meat and a paycheck.

He ducked under anyways. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d be late to work. And what was five minutes anyways? Surely Mr. Hong could survive just fine without him for a little longer. Besides, the water helped keep the urge to vomit at bay. He didn’t know how much vodka he had ingested, but it was safe to say that he wouldn’t be drinking anything for the rest of the week.

Thank goodness it’s Friday, he thought to himself, snickering, bubbles escaping in between his teeth.

His joke cost him air-time, and he resurfaced not long after, cleanly and with no dramatics this time. He sank back down a few inches, blowing bubbles sourly, treading the water lazily as he glanced at his watch again. Three minutes had passed and he frowned even more. Normally he could stay under for five minutes. On a really good day he could get to seven. Once he had stayed under for ten, but that had been…extenuating circumstances that he didn’t wish to repeat again. Of course, all these times were for lazy swimming. When he was really moving, the time dropped dramatically.

“Which is normal,” he said aloud, as if reassuring himself, “Very much so.” 

Finally, with a loud groan that surprised a nearby seagull, he sloshed to the harbor. Water rolled off tanned skin as he pulled himself nimbly onto the slippery wood. He nodded at the hobo fisherman—or at least, he thought he was a hobo…he certainly dressed like one—who nodded back. They both came here daily and were well-accustomed to each other’s routines, but that was about as far as the friendship went.

Clad in his high school racing speedo, Harper walked and dripped down the boardwalk, head pounding dully with each step. He tipped his head to the other fishermen and passerbys. There were more than he was accustomed to, but that was likely because today’s swim had started later than his usuals, which could be attributed to the same reason for his hangover.